


until the red dawn breaks

by lilithiumwords



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Almost Everybody Dies, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Asexual Relationship, Character Death, Dark, Gen, Halloween, Horror, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse, lots of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 22:56:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2524778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithiumwords/pseuds/lilithiumwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If you see an Orc, run. Run and do not look back. Find safety, find shelter, find a weapon -- do not let it near you. Orcs eat people, but their bites do not simply kill; they keep a person awake long after death. Ten minutes to live, ten days to die. It is a terrible death, and no one bitten can be saved.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Zombie Apocalypse, Tolkien Style, for Halloween 2014!</p>
            </blockquote>





	until the red dawn breaks

**Author's Note:**

> Participating dwarves chosen by popular demand on a lovely tumblr poll! Happy Halloween! :D

October is Bilbo Baggins' favorite time of year. The month starts with the annual Took Family Gathering, a week-long party with much drinking and good fun. Then there is Autumn Cleaning, which has always remained very serious business for the Baggins family, a tradition that Bilbo upholds with religious deference. He ends the month with the pumpkin festival by joining the Shire in marveling over the great pumpkins produced every year. He always buys at least two or three and, after leaving them on display for a night or two, turns them into pies and cakes. Roasting the seeds is also a favorite pasttime.

The Cleaning is already complete, and all that remains is for Bilbo to set his pumpkins outside and sit back with a pipe to enjoy the cool, clear evening. It takes a bit of heavy lifting, but Bilbo is nothing if not tenacious, and half an hour later he has three pumpkins bigger than his head lined up on a hay bale that he will later use to make some lavender herb pillows. _Never waste anything,_ his father always told him.

With a beaming smile, Bilbo fishes for his pipeweed and walks down to his bench to sit, enjoying the late afternoon sun. As he lights his pipe, he notices movement down the road and sees Holman Greenhand standing by his post box, frowning at the scarecrow he set up ages ago during the height of the growing season.

"Ho, Holman!" Bilbo calls with a cheerful wave. Holman looks up at him and grins, lifting his hand in return. Bilbo smiles, starting to stand so that he may go chat with his neighbor, but he slows and his smile fades.

There is a monster behind Holman, with a wide, gaping mouth and vicious teeth, eyes burning red in the afternoon shadows. Tall like a Man with sharp armor and long claws -- an Orc, filthy and bloodthirsty and utterly terrifying. Bilbo drops his pipe and points past Holman, mute with fear, and Holman can hardly turn before the monster grabs him and bites him.

When the monster moves away, half of Holman's shoulder and neck is gone; missing, and Holman's wide eyes meet Bilbo's before he begins to fall. Bilbo moves forward, then jerks back when he sees the monster turn his way.

His mother once told him, _Bilbo, if you see someone who's been bitten, run away. You cannot save them. You can only grant them the mercy of not watching them succumb._

 _Ten minutes to live,_ Bilbo thinks as he runs up to his smial. His mother's words, his father's fear. _Ten minutes to live and ten days to die._

His breaths are loud in his ears. His knee knocks against the hay bale, dislodging the pumpkins and sending them rolling into his yard. He hears snarling behind him, but he already has his door open and is falling inside, slamming the door shut and fleeing to the very back of the smial.

There is a hidden latch at the very back of the smoking room. Bilbo presses it and slips into the small shadowy opening that appears, stopping on the top step and turning to tug the hidden door shut. Then he pulls the heavy barricade down over the door. He hears thuds up near the front of the smial; they must have gotten past his front door.

Bilbo descends the steps and reaches out with his left hand for the candle and flint on the third shelf in the wall. He need not see it; he has known how to find it in the dark since he was small. He does not light the candle, but he does back away, blindly making his way backwards for several minutes, until he can turn a corner and feel for the second door.

Only when the second door is latched and locked does Bilbo finally, shakily light his candle.

The room is sizable for a secret shelter. Dwarves had designed it thirty years ago under the suspicious supervision of Bungo Baggins, after the Fell Winter which had brought White Wolves to their peaceful Shire. Their small family had nearly died then from starvation and attack. One of Bungo's brothers had not survived when wolves had destroyed his home, and after his burial, Belladonna had told her husband and son of the world beyond their Shire, of the monsters that roamed the shadows and the beasts that brought death with one bite.

_If you see an Orc, run. Run and do not look back. Find safety, find shelter, find a weapon -- do not let it near you. Orcs eat people, but their bites do not simply kill; they keep a person awake long after death. Ten minutes to live, ten days to die. It is a terrible death, and no one bitten can be saved._

Bungo Baggins had feared his wife's words so deeply that he hired a small family of Dwarves to build a secret shelter at the back of Bag-End, and when it was finished, he had his family practice every week what they would do in case of an attack. Run to the smoke room and hide. Barricade the doors and wait. Check the supplies once a month; change out the food and blankets. Always save extra in the autumn, in case there is another Fell Winter or worse.

Even after his parents' deaths, Bilbo had faithfully practiced and resupplied the shelter room once a month. He had never, ever believed he would use it one day; but here he is.

Bilbo tucks the candle into a holder and backs away to the mattress in the corner, sliding to his knees and pulling them to his chest. This deep in the earth, he can hardly hear anything that happens in the rest of the smial; but the clever Dwarves who had built the room had arranged a small vent to travel from the front hall of the smial to the shelter, so that anyone hiding may hear if there are people or monsters walking about.

Bilbo can hear the monsters now, making heavy grunts and low snarls, guttural noises in a language he does not understand. He hugs his knees tight and closes his eyes, bowing his head and weeping. If he had yelled sooner -- if he had grabbed Holman and run with him -- Holman might be in here, safe and alive.

He has no idea where the rest of his neighbors are. He has no idea if his family and friends are okay. He could have told more people about his shelter; maybe they could have run to him for help. He would have gladly offered; but in all of his fifty-one years of life, Bilbo had never thought to share that family secret with anybody.

For all he knows, everyone in the Shire would soon be dead.

He knows roughly ten minutes have passed. _Ten minutes to live._ Holman would be dead now. _Ten days to die._ Bilbo has never understood what his mother had meant. She had said that the bodies would move around, but how was that possible? How could it happen?

It's awful, Bilbo thinks, wiping at his face and pressing his hand to his chest. His heart still beats fast; he jumps every time he hears a loud noise from the front of the smial. Something crashes; something breaks. The grunting goes away, but there are still small noises, like an animal rooting around for food. He hopes, foolishly, that whatever is out there does not break his mother's tea set, which he had set out for that evening.

An hour passes slowly. Bilbo watches the candle flicker and listens to his heartbeat. After two hours, he can hear no sounds at all, so Bilbo dares to creep silently from the shelter and down the hidden hallway. He leaves his candle behind and goes to the wall where the stairs are, stopping beside them against the wall. His line of sight is just at floor level in the smoking room, so Bilbo reaches up to another hidden latch, which makes a small slab of wood slide to the side so that he may see into the smoking room.

Holman is standing in the smoking room.

Bilbo covers his mouth before he can gasp, and he presses against the wall as his knees buckle. He has never seen anything so horrible.

Holman's feet are dirty and turning purple; his clothes are ripped and stained dark with blood. Even with part of his body gone, he can stand silently, eyes milky white. His mouth hangs open, white spittle at the edges and on his cheeks. He looks _dead_ , yet a minute later, Holman slowly turns his head toward where Bilbo is hiding.

Bilbo slams the window shut and scrambles back, covering his mouth and shrinking down against the opposite wall. He does not dare move after that; he hears nothing from the smoking room, no sign that Holman truly knows that he is there. Minutes tick by, and then Bilbo hears a faint shuffling, like something being dragged. He stays very still.

After half an hour of silence, Bilbo inches forward to the window slab, slowly pulling it open.

Holman is now standing inches from Bilbo's face. A heavy thud shakes the wall; he hears a snarl from the other room.

Bilbo shuts the window again and runs the other way, locking himself into his sheltered room and tugging the heavy water barrel in front of the door. He tucks himself into the corner, trying to slow his hyperventilating and failing for several minutes.

No matter what sounds he hears or does not hear, he does not leave the shelter again -- not for eleven days.

Belladonna had once suggested an hourglass that kept a day's time, so Bilbo sets it to start counting down the hours, watching the sands tickle down the large curved glass. The shelter has food and water, so Bilbo does not starve, but he is careful with what he eats. There is even plumbing, which the Dwarves had also designed to connect with the main smial system, with blankets and dishes and even a few books.

It is enough to survive.

So Bilbo waits for eleven days, sleeping poorly and distracting himself with his books. Every time he hears noises from the smial he does his best to ignore them, though as the sands slip away, he wonders if any of his food is safe. He wonders if he will die in here; if he will suffocate, if the monsters lie in wait. If Holman is still standing outside his shelter, swaying on his feet with blood sluggishly dripping down his front.

On the eleventh day, which Bilbo has carefully marked in a small journal he had tucked next to the books, he pushes the water barrel aside, lifts the barricading board, and unlocks the door. With the key in his pocket and a small knife in his hand, Bilbo walks down the dark hallway, up to the window.

When he looks out, the smoking room is empty. There are footprints on the floor, but the dark substance has since dried. Bilbo hears no sounds; the silence is more terrifying, in that moment, than the grunts and snarls he had heard days ago.

Cautiously, Bilbo climbs the stairs and pushes up the barricade. Then he slides the door open and, holding his knife out in front of him, leaves his shelter.

His feet step silently against the floor, avoiding the dark foot prints which lead directly between the smoking room and the front door. He checks the back rooms first; empty. The back door is closed. Every room is empty, though there is glass, broken bits of furniture, and dirt on the floor. His mother's tea set is shattered, as is at least one window. But the door is in one piece, and when Bilbo peeks outside, he sees no one. There is smoke in the distance and the roads are disturbingly empty, for being this late in the morning -- _has it been so long since he had elevensies?_

Bag-End, his parents' pride and joy, is wrecked but not destroyed, and mercifully empty. Bilbo goes to the front door first and closes it, pulling down a heavy plank and locking it into place; then he does the same for the back door, which is still closed. Then he goes to every room, twice each, and checks every closet and nook for anything out of sorts. His pantry has been raided, food spilled on the floor, but his store rooms are safe.

Then Bilbo goes to each window, to pull closed the thick shutters that Bungo had placed on the inside and latching them locked. Growing up he had always thought his father mad for his overprotective safety measures, but now Bilbo is grateful for them.

He spends the rest of the day cleaning and sorting out his supplies. At one point in the afternoon, he takes a bin of rotting food outside to dump in the compost pile.

On his way back, Bilbo looks over at his garden, which still has a few tomatoes and herbs even this late in the season. He has been saving one particular fat tomato on the vine, but he sees now that it has begun to turn white with mold. Such a waste, but he goes over to pick it off, so that he can throw it with the rest of the composting food.

Bilbo's fingers stop short before touching the tomato. There is a body in his garden.

The stench hits him moments later, and Bilbo gags, backing up and covering his mouth. He stares down at the body in horror.

It is Holman Greenhand, and he is dead, milky eyes staring unseeing up at the sky.

"Oh, Holman," Bilbo whispers, closing his eyes tightly against tears. He cannot leave his neighbor like this; they had played as children together. They had been _friends_. 

He knows it is risky to stay out here without knowing what is going on, but Holman deserves a proper burial. So Bilbo covers his mouth with a handkerchief and covers Holman with dirt until the smell no longer burns his eyes.

Bilbo cries anyway, and he leaves lavender and rosemary on Holman's grave.

When the sun begins to set, Bilbo hears snarling down the hill. He disappears inside Bag-End and closes the door behind him tightly, locking the barricade into place and checking every window. Then he goes to take a bath, with water as hot as he can boil it, scrubbing at his skin until he no longer feels filthy.

He sleeps in the shelter room.

~

Two weeks pass, and Bilbo sees no one else alive, save the Orcs that run through the Shire every few nights. Sometimes he sees white-eyed Hobbits standing at his gate, which he has locked and barricaded with old barrels, but he rarely ventures outside except to dispose of garbage and gather supplies.

He only goes outside during the day. Orcs hunt during the night, and they never seem to notice that he exists inside his smial. He burns fires sparingly, eats little compared to normal, and hides himself away in his smial, mourning the faces he sees standing at his gate and wondering if anyone else has survived. The Shire is large, after all, and surely there are families who hid themselves like he did or escaped. Tuckborough and Buckland, for sure, but Bilbo has no way to tell -- it is several days' walking to either family, and Bilbo dares not risk it.

He wonders if he will die alone here, after all.

Bilbo goes into his neighbors' houses sometimes, when the sun is brightest and he cannot see anyone for miles. He takes their foodstuffs and candles and flint, and he leaves apologies with the question, _Has anybody come home?_

He never finds an answer on any of the notes.

Nearly a month after Holman was bitten, Bilbo is walking up the hill to his home quickly, carrying a bag of food under one arm and cursing himself for taking too long. He had found two bodies earlier and had stopped to bury them -- children, a boy and a girl, their eyes white and empty -- and it is nearing dusk. The sky is grey and darkening quickly, and Bilbo needs to get inside now.

He hears deep voices arguing on the path ahead of him, and he looks up to see a small group of -- Dwarves?

The Dwarves stop as soon as they see him, and Bilbo wastes no time -- he drops his bag and leaps over his fence, flying up his hill and slamming into his smial. He barricades his door and breathes out, terrified and confused, because now that he thinks about it, their eyes had not been whitened with death.

A moment later, Bilbo hears a heavy knock on his door, and then -- "Are you there? Hello?"

Bilbo falls back from the door in surprise, letting out a startled shout as he hits the floor. The door thuds with another heavy knock. "Hey! We saw you, we know you're in there. Are you alright? Look, we're safe, we're not, uh, infected. Dead? Undead? What are we calling those things, anyway?"

"Bofur," a deeper voice growls, "don't be crude. You're scaring Ori."

"Er, sorry," the first voice says, subdued. "Sorry, Ori."

"It's okay," a third voice whispers, small and high and shaking slightly. "Um... is this the Hobbit home you told us about, Mister Bofur? The one with the..."

Bilbo shifts to his knees, reaching to his side where he has his dagger strapped. He does not touch it just yet, scarcely believing what he is hearing. He has not seen another person in three weeks, and here are -- Dwarves?

"Aye, now that you mention it. Bag-End, I think it's called. With the hidden shelter. Mr. Baggins? Is that you in there?"

Bilbo stares at the door, forgetting his dagger and fumbling for a response, his voice gravelly after weeks of not using it. "I, um -- what? How do you know my name?" His voice is shaking worse than Ori's.

The Dwarves all seem to pause, before Bofur continues more gently, "My name's Bofur, and my cousin Bifur here and I helped design your house, or at least that add-on from, uh, three decades ago, I think it was. Are you -- oh, are you wee little Bilbo? You were just a mite back then!" He chortles, and something in his voice relaxes Bilbo, and at the same time reminds him of those weeks of building, when he hung around the massive Dwarves and asked them question after question.

"Yes," Bilbo says after a long moment. "I'm Bilbo Baggins. My parents are gone, but... this is Bag-End, yes. How did you even..."

"Ah, well," Bofur says through the door, fabric rustling. "I remembered your place and thought we might stay here for the night. We didn't... well."

"We didn't think anyone would be alive," the second voice grumbled. "Can you let us in?"

Bilbo stiffens up again at the return of the second voice, stern and demanding in the same tone. "H-how do I know you all aren't... um, hurt? I can't... not again," he whispers, thinking of Holman.

There is a pointed pause, and the second voice said quietly, "Has it been ten minutes since we saw Mr. Baggins, Fíli?"

He hears a small click, and a flat voice replies, "Six minutes, Uncle."

"Then we shall wait for four more minutes. Is that agreeable for you to let us join you, Mr. Baggins?" asks the uncle, and Bilbo pulls out his own watch, his eyes widening slightly.

"That's fine. Um, I can wait that long."

Four minutes past slowly, and when Bilbo peeks through his window, he sees five Dwarves standing there, all with normal eyes. With a heavy sigh, Bilbo opens the door and steps back, watching the five Dwarves troop in, shrinking back at the look the last Dwarf, taller than all the rest, gives him.

Bilbo is quick to shut and barricade the door, as it is nearly sunset. He is pleasantly surprised when one of the Dwarves, an older fellow with an axe of all things in his head, hands him the sack he dropped. He knows this Dwarf -- he met him thirty years ago.

"Thank you, um," Bilbo stutters, and the Dwarf with the funny hat grins at him. "Bifur?"

"Aye, you remember! I'm Bofur, and this is Ori," Bofur gestures to the shortest of their company, a timid Dwarf with orange braids and knitted cuffs on his hands. "Fíli." Now he gestures to the blond Dwarf, who stares back at Bilbo emotionlessly, his beard shorn short and his body heavily armed. "And the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield himself."

The last Dwarf, who has brooding blue eyes and a great axe on his back, grunts and pushes past Bofur, pulling off his cloak and tossing it over a chair. "Enough, Bofur. Check the perimeter. Fíli, Ori, look into supper. Bifur, take watch for the first shift."

"Now see here," Bilbo speaks up, appalled. "Do you mind? This is my home, and you shouldn't just -- barge in and take over. My, um, defenses are fine, though perhaps an expert eye would help," he trails off, then straightens with another frown. "But leave my pantry alone! I can handle supper, thank you. You are, after all, guests," he finishes sarcastically, as Thorin narrows his eyes.

The other four Dwarves seem to hold their breath.

"By all means," Thorin grits out after a moment. Bilbo glares at him and turns on his heel, disappearing into his kitchen and muttering under his breath about rude house guests.

"Just because it's the end of the world doesn't mean he needs to be so..."

"Um, Mr. Baggins? Would you like some help?" Ori asks hesitantly from the doorway, and Bilbo huffs to see Fíli standing silently at Ori's elbow. After a moment he gives in and hands Ori two jars.

"If you could put those in the pot over the fire, I would be grateful," Bilbo replies. "Um, Fíli, was it? Could you peel these potatoes?"

Fíli wordlessly lays two pheasants on the table, and Bilbo stares at them in shock. He hasn't eaten fresh meat in three weeks. He had smoked fish and sausages in storage, at one point, but those are since gone.

"Thank you for sharing," Bilbo murmurs, and something in Fíli's blank expression softens, just a bit.

The three of them set to work, and soon Bilbo has a stew bubbling over the small fire. It takes a while to simmer, so Bilbo joins the Dwarves at the table with mugs of ale from the last of his barrels. For a time, they are silent. Bifur sits in the living room by one of the windows, able to see them and keep an eye on the door at the same time.

"Nice to see our work has held up over the years," Bofur says to break the silence, nodding to the shutters over the windows.

Bilbo manages a small smile. "My father kept up with them until he died, then I did. I never thought..." He grimaces and looks down at his ale, aware that the Dwarves are watching him.

"Can't say any of us did," Thorin responds finally, his voice deep and grave. His eyes are hooded with old grief, the same pain that echoes in all of their expressions.

"Do you, um," Bilbo starts, turning his mug around on the table, "are there any other Hobbits? Have you been south of here, where the Thain lives, or east to Buckland?"

"Not either," Bofur replies, thoughtful. "We came from the north. Haven't seen anybody around until you. How long have you been hiding in here?"

Bilbo glances up to see both Bofur and Thorin watching him with thoughtful, wary interest. Fíli has pulled out an alarming number of daggers and is cleaning them carefully, while Ori has taken a small journal from his pocket and is jotting down notes. "Four weeks, about," Bilbo answers quietly. "I saw my neighbor get bitten and hid myself away in the shelter you and your family built for us. It saved me, I think. Thank you for the failsafes you built into the system."

"Ye can thank Bifur for those," Bofur says, jabbing over his shoulder with his thumb. "He's a genius at secrets like that, though he doesn't talk much. Great with building plans."

Bilbo nods, sipping his ale slowly. He feels strange to be in real company again after four weeks of solitude, and with Dwarves at that. "I wish I could make sense of any of it, but there's been no one else... everyone has died or run away. There are still Orcs out there, too, so I haven't... I suppose I'm too afraid to leave. Ever since Holman died..." He stares down at the table, aware of how pathetic that sounds, then stands abruptly. "I should check on supper. Excuse me."

None of the Dwarves respond, and Bilbo flees to his kitchen, poking at the pot for a few minutes. He glances up when the leader of the Dwarves joins him, sitting at the kitchen table slowly, leathers creaking loudly in the silence.

"My company used to be much larger in number," Thorin tells him quietly. "My sister and my other nephew, my cousins... Bofur's and Ori's brothers and their families. Dozens of my people who had survived the first wave have migrated in the past several months --"

"Months?" repeats Bilbo, shocked. He sees Bofur lingering in the doorway, observing them, but he keeps his attention on Thorin.

"Aye," Thorin rumbles, frowning at him. "The Shire has been well protected, if you were only attacked in the last month. We have been plagued by the monsters since spring. I hear it is just bad on the other side of the Misty Mountains, and the Elves have all but disappeared into their woods."

Bilbo lowers his gaze, unable to imagine the world as Thorin describes it. He remembers his mother's stories of beautiful places and friendly people, of happier times. "I see," he whispers.

"My point is, most of our family and friends are dead or have traveled ahead of us," Thorin states, blunt enough that it sends a shiver through Bilbo. "We are headed to the Red Mountains, where my people are settling. I would prefer to go to Erebor, myself..."

Bofur scoffs, and Bilbo tilts his head in confusion. "Erebor?"

"An old Dwarven city north of the Greenwood," Thorin explains, glaring past Bilbo. "No one dares cross the Misty Mountains, though. It is crawling with Orcs and goblins."

"What our illustrious leader is trying to ask, Bilbo," Bofur interjects, coming to sit at Bilbo's side and smiling genially at him. "Would you like to travel with us? Safety in numbers."

"Oh," Bilbo says in a small voice, looking between Thorin and Bofur. "That's very kind of you, but I couldn't..."

"You cannot stay here, Mr. Baggins," Thorin intones, leaning forward. "There is nothing here but death. The Shire has been destroyed. Maybe your brethren have also gone south, or perhaps they are east as you thought. I have heard, though, that everywhere east of here is ravaged."

The look Bilbo gives Thorin is horrified, and Bofur scowls at Thorin as he hastens to reassure Bilbo. "That isn't to say that the, er, Thain was it? That everyone isn't safe. We could go see, right?" He exchanges a look with Thorin, who looks mutinous at the idea, but Bilbo looks up with wide, watery eyes.

"Really? We could," he hiccups and blushes, "go to Tuckborough? It's only a day's travel, I think, if we hurry. Buckland is a few days to the east."

Bofur and Thorin stare at him, then exchange another silent conversation. Bilbo watches them, bemused, as Thorin looks increasingly angry, and Bofur looks increasingly smug. 

"Tuckborough it is," Bofur says with a grin, and Thorin mutters and leaves the table in a huff. Bilbo smiles up at Bofur, hope blossoming in his chest, and he feels better, enough to stand and go find enough bowls for his surprise guests.

~

After dinner, Bilbo tells them quietly about Holman and the Hobbits who stood white-eyed at his gates. In return, the Dwarves tell him their stories.

"Not sure if you remember him, but my brother Bombur was with us, and his wife and little 'uns. Walked with us all the way to Nogrod, and then Bombur sent his family on with the other refugees. He was supposed to come with us, but we were ambushed. Half the refugees were killed or turned, and Bombur with them... Mahal rest his soul, but I miss him," Bofur murmurs in a choked voice.

"I had two older brothers," Ori whispers. "Dori came with me, when we fled, even though Nori hadn't come home yet from his travels. We met up with Thorin and his family, and we thought this barn would be safe... it wasn't. Dori got bitten. Bifur was kind enough to help him pass on, so that he did not suffer more. I still don't know what happened to Nori."

"The same attack killed most of my family," Thorin says to the table, his shoulders heavy with grief. Beside him, Fíli stays mute with a haunted expression. "My cousins Glóin and Óin fought them off while Heddi took Gimli and ran. My sister should have run with them, but her sons were fighting and she refused to leave them." Beside him, Fíli has closed his eyes, his jaw tense as he clenches his teeth. "Dís fell that day, as did my cousins. Dwalin, Balin... Glóin, Óin. They are all dead. We never even found Kíli's body. We are the last of our family... except, we hope, Glóin's wife and child."

Thorin's deep blue eyes hold unshed tears when he looks at Bilbo, whose heart aches for them, as it does for the Hobbits he saw dead. Their group separates slowly, Bilbo leaving the Dwarves alone as he goes to prepare the shelter room for six people. Bofur joins him, carrying blankets and pillows, and Bilbo spares him a small smile.

The fire and candles in Bag-End are doused, and the Dwarves follow Bilbo down into the earth, watching the small Hobbit as he demonstrates closing the heavy barricade and the latched spy window. They leave their weapons by the stairs with Fíli, who silently volunteers to take first watch, and the rest of the Dwarves join Bilbo in the shelter room, which miraculously fits all of them. Bifur and Bofur take the outermost bedrolls, with Ori tucked in the middle of the room, and Thorin joins Bilbo on the mattress in the corner.

Bilbo usually sleeps with his back to the wall, but now Thorin is lying beside him and it feels awkward to face him. His warmth is relaxing, though; Bilbo has not felt another person's warmth in weeks -- certainly not like this, pressed together in a small bed. Thorin wears a soft blue tunic to bed, though Bilbo notices that he has brought his sword into the room. Bilbo keeps his dagger under his pillow.

They leave a single candle lit, and Bilbo watches it over Thorin's shoulder, sleepy yet tense with the unfamiliarity of strangers. He feels in his bones that they are not dangerous to him, that they have lost too much in the past months, just as he has. He wants to trust them.

He glances from the flickering light to Thorin's face, and he startles when he sees Thorin watching him. The Dwarf remains silent, perhaps unwilling to disturb his brethren, but after a moment a large hand reaches up to Bilbo's face, thumbing one of his curls.

Bilbo blinks rapidly, his eyes suddenly wet with heat, and looks away. He should not be this happy to see a stranger.

But he has been alone. He had thought everyone dead.

Thorin's hand slides around the back of his head and pulls him closer, tucking Bilbo against his broad shoulder. His warmth settles around Bilbo, more comforting than any blanket piled on them, and Bilbo closes his eyes, breathing out a shaky sigh.

It is easier to rest after that.

~

Two days later, Bilbo is ready to leave -- but Thorin stops him, just as they are about to leave Bag-End for good.

On the ground is a layer of soft white snow, grey skies stretching into the distance as winter sets in. Thorin curses and pushes everyone back into the smial, shutting the door and thinking hard for a moment. "Mr. Baggins, how are your stores? Good for the winter?"

Bilbo stares at Thorin's shoulder, where snow is melting, and he fears. "Not... for the six of us. Maybe not even for one."

Thorin's gaze shifted down to him. "What about Tuckborough, where your Thain lives?"

"Oh," Bilbo blinks, meeting his eyes, "the Tooks have huge store rooms. My mother was a Took, so I know the area well. Are you..."

"We may need to winter there. I had hoped to reach one of the cities of Men before the snow fell, but now... well. Come." Thorin opens the door again, and together the five Dwarves and one Hobbit leave Bag-End, into a world bitterly cold and filled with predators.

Bilbo takes the time to lock up Bag-End, tucking the key into his pocket with his only remaining handkerchief, and he joins Thorin and the others at the gate with a heavy sigh. Bofur pats his shoulder with a smile and sets off down the road, and Bilbo follows with his walking stick and winter cloak, hood pulled up against the wind. The six of them are silent; Bofur and Bilbo, who are the most likely to sing, do not dare, not with the eerie serenity of the Shire.

Through the cold and snow, they make it to Tuckborough with two hours to spare before the sun sets, but the woods are already darkened from the overcast skies. The doors to the front of the Great Smials are closed, but Bilbo leads Thorin and the others to a small smial half a mile away, where a hidden passageway takes them into the Smials proper.

"Neat trick," Bofur mutters, and Bilbo shrugs before lighting a lantern and leading them into Tuckborough.

The Great Smials are empty, though, of anybody alive or dead. Thorin and Bifur secure a room deep in the Smials, leaving Bilbo to investigate the storerooms with Fíli and Ori while the other three pace around the halls, befuddled at the lack of any sign of life.

They find their answer when they look out one of the western windows and see a long stretch of snow-covered mounds. Thorin is grim as he looks upon the stones marking the graves. Dozens and dozens of Hobbits, all dead; someone had laid them to rest, but then they had left as well.

Bilbo breaks down when Thorin tells him. He had only seen them a few weeks ago! His family!

The food stores are more than enough to keep them through the winter, though. Bilbo is wrought with despair, so Thorin leaves him be and orders the Dwarves to start boarding up windows and barricading doors. They mark off a small area where they will tend the fires and sleep, but better to keep the entire perimeter secure.

That night, Bilbo cries into Thorin's shoulder, inconsolable, until at last he sleeps in emotional exhaustion. His family had been here; his cousins, his aunts and uncles, his grandparents, so many Hobbits gone. He has no idea who is buried outside, but he can only imagine that by the number, it is most of his family.

He has never felt so alone, even curled up in someone's arms. Thorin never lets him go, though, until the early morning when Bilbo rises to stoke the fires, his heart melancholy but empty of tears.

Thorin watches him go, missing his warmth yet understanding his grief.

~

Tuckborough lasts them through the winter, at least for two months. Bifur and Fíli take turns hunting in the woods during the day, bringing back rabbits, pheasants, and chickens that had gotten loose. They even manage to bring down a deer once, which sweetens their dinners for some time. Somehow their small company manages to survive, for a time.

Somehow Bilbo has grown close enough to each of their small company that he could, to an extent, call them his friends. Ori is a delight, being a fellow writer and artist, and they would easily spend hours in the library together if Thorin did not routinely assign them chores. Bofur is a good friend for song and cheer when Bilbo is feeling depressed, and Bifur will sit quietly with Bilbo during watches, carving small toys out of leftover wood. Fíli remains mostly silent, but sometimes he will talk with Bilbo about small topics, and only if Thorin is not around.

Thorin is another matter altogether. They sleep together every night; that has not changed from the first night, and despite Bofur's teasing and Ori's wide-eyed looks, their relationship is not sexual.

They are intimate, though. Bilbo is most comfortable with Bofur and Ori, but he still relies on Thorin the most. He sits with Thorin when he is lonely, and they usually do not talk; if they do, Thorin lectures him on survival, and Bilbo tells Thorin about the history he has read of the world. Together they try to make some sense of what has happened.

Bilbo thinks about Thorin and his Dwarf friends often. His life has changed so greatly since Holman's death, and he has the Dwarves to thank for staying alive. He cannot imagine living without them, now. They are everything to him.

He clings to that connection whenever they hear the snarls of Orcs in the distance. Whenever they hear the hunting cries, Thorin orders the fires doused and the candles snuffed, and they all go to a window to take watch. Bilbo almost always sits with Thorin, staring over his shoulder at the swirling snow outside, even though it breaks his heart more times than not.

Outside in the snow, on the other side of the barricade of hay bales Bifur and Fíli had arranged weeks ago, roam white-eyed Hobbits, Men, even a Dwarf once, and sometimes forest creatures like deer and foxes. The undead creatures' clothes are torn and their bodies stained red in places, vivid in the snow that swirls through the air. Their eyes are glazed over, but always, always their attention remains on wherever Bilbo and his Dwarves wait in hiding.

If any of the undead break through the barrier, Fíli shoots them down. If there are no Orcs or undead around, Thorin gives in to Bilbo's pleas and helps bury the bodies during the day.

Sometimes they cannot reach the bodies before more undead creatures begin to attack the fallen dead. Wargs or wolves may join them, eating away at the bodies until nothing remains. Bilbo only ever sees another Orc a few times, and each time, Thorin pulls him close and refuses to let him move or make a noise until the Orc is dead.

Sometimes, Thorin talks to him, while they wait for the undead to die.

"They can hear us," Thorin murmurs, his breath a small cloud against the glass. One arm stays wrapped around Bilbo's shoulders, while Bilbo huddles under a blanket at his side. "Our heartbeats. They cannot see, cannot smell or notice anything beyond their limited senses, but they can hear, if they still have ears. They know we exist."

"Why do they try to reach us? I cannot fathom it," Bilbo whispers.

"Food, I suppose," Thorin responds, his voice darkening. "They will bite if they catch you, and you will become like them. It is not only Orcs who can spread the illness. The undead can infect you, too."

Bilbo looks up at Thorin, his lips twitching despite the grim topic, and Thorin narrows his eyes.

"What?"

"Only Bofur calls them undead," Bilbo sings, and he jumps with a laugh when Thorin jabs at his side.

"Hush, you," Thorin mutters, turning back to the window. Bilbo smiles and closes his eyes, resting his cheek against Thorin's shoulder.

~

It is late in the morning, three months after Holman's death, and Bilbo is sitting with Ori, fletching arrows with deft fingers. Thorin is in conference with Bofur in the other room, while Bifur sits outside, fixing a hole in the hay walls. Fíli has gone to hunt.

Fíli showed Bilbo how to make arrows weeks ago, with his mouth pressed tight and his fingers quick and angry. Bilbo did not ask, but later Ori confided that Fíli's brother had been an archer.

As Bilbo fletches another arrow, he catches Ori's small smile across the table. After they are done with their chore, he and Ori plan to commandeer the poetry section of his grandfather's library. Bofur has even agreed to sit for a few readings.

Just then, snarling erupts outside, with a sharp cry in Khuzdul, the Dwarvish language, followed by the clash of metal. Bilbo drops his arrow and jumps up, at the same time that Ori topples backwards, and he has barely taken two steps before Ori flies up and grabs Thorin's massive hammer, which once belonged to a Dwarf named Dwalin, running to the outermost door.

Bilbo unsheathes his small dagger and follows, heart beating in his ears. He is shoved back, though, when Thorin and Bofur push past him, joining Ori outside, and Bilbo glares at Thorin's head but follows to the door. 

There are twenty Orcs waiting outside the door, and Bifur is fighting them viciously. Ori has joined him, waving the hammer around like it weighs the same as a simple stick, and with each strike he sends one or more Orcs flying. Bofur's mattock takes down Orcs twice his size, and Thorin is a sight to behold, utilizing two swords at once.

Bilbo takes one trembling step forward, but Thorin shouts at him, "Stay back, Bilbo!"

Bilbo turns when he hears Bifur's scream of rage, and in the same moment that Bifur slices an Orc in half, another Orc comes up behind him and bites his head. Bifur stops short and falls to his knees, his eyes finding Bilbo's, and Bilbo can only think, _Not again, no._

Bilbo gasps and shrinks back, shaking his head in denial. Ori follows his line of sight and gapes, long enough for a Warg to jump on his back and bite deeply into his shoulder. With a start, Bilbo straightens and runs at the warg, raising his dagger, but Thorin catches his arm and shoves him back at the door.

"Get inside!" Thorin roars, wielding his sword before the two of them.

"But Ori," Bilbo gasps, pressing against Thorin's back, straining forward. They both hesitate, though, when the Warg shakes Ori's body and throws him several meters away, where he does not move again, the snow beneath his body staining red. With a snarl, Thorin shoves Bilbo to the ground and runs forward, cutting down the remaining Orcs until none are left standing.

Bilbo lies still on the ground, horrified at the carnage but unable to look away. If he takes his eyes off Thorin, he may never see him again, and he fears that so greatly that he cannot think clearly.

"Bofur," Thorin barks as he edges toward Bilbo again, but Bofur is standing still, staring across the yard at Bifur. Thorin reaches down to help Bilbo up, and they exchange a glance before cautiously looking at Bifur.

Bifur is still on his knees, and his eyes have begun to turn white. The older Dwarf lifts shaking hands and signs in the Dwarvish language, and Bofur cries out, denying the silent words.

"I won't, Bifur, you're all I've got left," Bofur bellows, stepping forward, but Bifur shakes his bleeding head, slinging thick red blots across the snow. He signs again, and Bofur refuses him once more, tears running down his beard.

Thorin turns away from them, taking Bilbo by the arm and pulling him against his chest. "Don't watch," he mutters, but Bilbo can see through the space between his arm and body anyway. He cannot look away, not even when Bifur starts to gurgle foaming, bloody spittle, his body shaking and shuddering and spasming, while his eyes glaze over with that haunting white film.

Bofur screams in anguish. It has been ten minutes since Bifur was bitten. Bifur rises slowly, and Thorin curses and turns with his sword, ready -- but then Bifur has crossed the space to Bofur and is biting into his arm.

Thorin and Bilbo gasp as one, and when Bofur falls to the ground, they back away together, Thorin crowding Bilbo through the door until he can slam it shut. Through the window, they see Bifur watching them with milky eyes, while Bofur stares up at him in shock, blood seeping through his scarf.

A moment later, an arrow shoots through Bifur's back, and then a second through Bofur's heart. In the woods stands Fíli, bloody with his arm hanging limply at his side, his eyes dark. He meets Thorin's gaze through the window, then turns away and disappears into the woods again, limping until the snowy shadows swallow him down.

Thorin and Bilbo stand together, yet they have never felt further apart. They do not speak that night, nor for the next ten days. They are both mute with grief and rage.

On the eleventh day, Bilbo rises early with Thorin and helps him bury their fallen friends. Bilbo finds dried lavender and drops it on their chests, before Thorin begins to shovel dirt over their blank faces. They never find Fíli's body in the woods; Thorin is furious in his despair. 

They burn the Orcs' bodies, then shut themselves into the Great Smials and do not dare leave again until winter is over, finding solace only in each other.

~

When the snow has begun to melt, Thorin and Bilbo leave the Shire together. They go south into the realms of Men, taking shelter in abandoned homes and towns. They begin to see people again, protected by armies of Men, and they follow rumors of Dwarves and Hobbits to the Red Mountains.

What waits for Bilbo and Thorin there is relief from their grief, because Hobbits and Dwarves have sought refuge in the hills together, and Bilbo and Thorin are welcomed by family and friends alike.

They make a small home together, and though many people make assumptions of them, Bilbo never bothers to correct them, and Thorin does not care. They have each other and that is all they need.


End file.
